By Joan Lenine

Language ought to be functional, worthwhile.

That is, after all, its primary connotation: to elucidate thoughts neatly, to communicate, to interact, to express individuality, to convey reality. Nevertheless, art is not always quite interested in that way of expression. There comes a common point, for anyone who spends enough time creating, when the existing words begin to feel insufficient; as though they were designed to describe something adjacent to what one is actually trying to say. On that occasion, the artist seeks yet another manner to express the idea, feeling, or thesis that they were originally trying to manifest. Language is abandoned when necessary, but occasionally, art demands and requires for it. That is when the artist begins to create a new system that survives within (and every now and then, without) the work itself.

There exist carefully constructed languages as, for instance, the Vulcan language from Star Trek, conceived under the direction of Gene Roddenberry, in which phrases such as “dif-tor heh smusma” carry a weight that seems to exceed their translation. “Live long and prosper” is a pleasant sentiment; its Vulcan counterpart feels almost ritualistic, as though meaning deepens when it is displaced from the familiar sounds that usually contain it.

What makes the Vulcan language particularly compelling besides its construction is its intention, as it was never meant to be a decorative tool. It reflects a way of thinking, a philosophy of life. The sounds are controlled, measured, almost austere. It is a language that seems to prioritise logic over impulse and structure over spontaneity. The phonetics enforce a kind of discipline, as if the language itself were shaping the thought before it is spoken. And because of this very restraint, it carries an unexpected gravity. One does not simply say something in Vulcan but they appear to arrive at it.

Alternatively, considering the final works of David Bowie, specifically the album Blackstar, fragments of a script appear, created by the artist himself along with designer Jonathan Barnbrook. The symbols, forged from an original stylisation of a star, resist immediate understanding. They exist and are perceived before being deciphered. They come across as astronomical, distant, precise, indifferent.

Furthermore, “Ah! Böwakawa poussé, poussé” from John Lennon’s #9 Dream. It is a musical line. It belongs in the mouth and the tongue and the ear before it is even considered by the mind and the consciousness. At this point, language ceases being a tool and begins being a medium. A sound carries emotion and meaning through sensation, cadence, phonetics, through the peculiar way in which it is heard.

It would be easy to dismiss these inventions as eccentricities, small artistic indulgences that serve no practical purpose. But practicality has never been the measure of artistic value. If anything, it is often the obstacle.

To create a language, even a fragmentary one, is to declare that the existing systems are never whole. That expression is not set in stone. There linger unvoiced experiences, emotions, and ideas that are yet to be named and remain untethered to the strings of established language, perhaps forever beyond the reach of our current lexicon. We do this as children instinctively, before being instructed otherwise. We invent sounds and words for something we can feel but we cannot yet categorise. Yet, along the way, we are told to simply accept the words handed down, to trade the thrill of invention for the safety of clarity, and to let precision rule out the joy of play. Artists, for better or worse, tend to decline bowing to it.

There is freedom in creating, writing, singing, and speaking a language that nobody fully understands. It removes the obligation of the meaning being immediately grasped and it rather invites for interpretation.

Not everything needs explaining. And if it doesn’t make sense, you’re probably listening correctly.

Joan Lenine